


Nobody Can Replace You (I Thought You Knew)

by WhatIsAir



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Crack, First Kiss, Humour, M/M, Mostly canon compliant up to about S3E1, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Pining, mentions of military kink, one or two bad puns, sherlock needs help with feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 12:57:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6006841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatIsAir/pseuds/WhatIsAir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a pause while John looks stricken, torn between punching the living daylights out of Sherlock or fucking the living daylights out of him.</p><p>OR 5 times Sherlock struggles to verbalize his thoughts about John, and the 1 time he has no trouble voicing them at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nobody Can Replace You (I Thought You Knew)

_18 years old_

“Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock,” Mycroft murmurs, placing a reassuring hand on his brother’s shoulder, “Better you learn this lesson now than later, brother mine. Trust me.”

On the floor, Sherlock hunches further in on himself, face buried in his knees. “When will it stop?” he says, voice muffled and pained, the _hurting_ implicit in his question.

Mycroft’s heart clenches; he has failed in his duty to protect his baby brother. “In time, Sherlock. But for now, you would do well to focus on your studies. Forget about _Victor_.” He spits the name out like it’s poison.

Sherlock raises his head, his red-rimmed eyes focussing unsteadily on Mycroft. “He prom – promised, Mycroft. He said he’d never leave, and now he’s - just _gone_.”

“I know it’s hard, Sherlock,” Mycroft says, crouching down in front of his brother. (He grimaces and tries not to think how the meticulously pressed line of his suit will be disrupted.) “But you must remember Redbeard. The world is populated with idiots, and there’s no need to concern yourself with them. You are better than him, Sherlock, and you deserve better still.”

No response comes from Sherlock beyond a telling hitch in his breath and the erratic rise and fall of his shoulders.

Mycroft relents. He shifts to sit beside Sherlock (his D&G suit be damned), his back to the wall, and folds his younger brother into his embrace.

Sherlock goes without complaint, and the two sit there, Sherlock’s tears soaking Mycroft’s dress shirt and neither of them saying a word about it.

-

_32 years old_

From their first meeting at Bart’s, to moving in with him, to killing the cabbie, John Watson has proved an enigma. Intriguing, exciting and brimming with possibility. Sherlock quashes the voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Mycroft’s, telling him to back off before he becomes emotionally invested. Instead he glances at John, who’s not only stayed but has killed a man for him tonight –

“Dinner?” Sherlock asks, breathless with exhilaration and terrified that John will say no.

“Sounds good,” John says, flashing him a smile. Sherlock’s heart falters.

“I know a good Chinese place around the corner,” he says, swiftly recovering.

The egg rolls are marvellous, or so John says, because Sherlock spends most of the meal pretending to pick at his food, devoting the whole of his focus on what John is saying and/or doing instead.

In the span of an hour, Sherlock has determined that John:  a) adores egg rolls and spring rolls and also bread rolls but that’s beside the point  b) doesn’t like talking about his family  c) is an inherently GOOD person in block letters and  d) is entirely too GOOD for Sherlock.

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock says later, back in the comfort of the ( _their_ , his mind gleefully supplies) flat.

“Hm?” John turns from where he’s toeing off his shoes, movements made hazy and lethargic by exhaustion and lack of sleep.

“For –” Sherlock waves an arm vaguely in a gesture that hopefully conveys _killing that cabbie, saving my life and also for staying_. “For the Chinese,” is what comes out instead.

“Oh, cheers,” John says, hanging up his coat and turning to make his way upstairs to his bedroom. “Night, Sherlock.”

“Night,” Sherlock tells the empty living room, stomach rumbling with hunger after all the Chinese he didn’t eat, but his chest feeling lighter than it has in years.

Maybe Mycroft was wrong, for once. Maybe caring isn’t so bad after all.

-

_33 years old_

Sherlock hurries as best he can through the tramway tunnel, careful not to make a sound. Just around the bend in front he hears General Shan talking, and then – the voice unmistakable – John’s reply.

Relief surges through him, so fast and sudden his knees almost give out. (He hadn’t realized just _how much_ he’d feared the worst, feared that he’d be too late, that Shan would realize she had the wrong man, and John’s body would be all he found.)

“How would _you_ describe me, John?” he says, regaining his composure, because John isn’t safe yet, not by a long shot, “Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?”

“Late?” John says, sounding irritated more than anything. Sherlock has never wanted to hold him in his arms more.

He talks, because talking is what he does best, and when rhetoric fails in the face of the Black Lotus Tong, he throws caution to the wind and darts out from the cover of darkness to free Sarah. (Because s _he_ is the priority. Or at least, she is to John, and that’s enough for Sherlock.)

He almost fails and gets Sarah impaled, but John (wonderful, brave, loyal to a fault John) saves her.

Back in the flat, Sherlock spends the rest of the evening watching from the sidelines, as John putters around making first tea, then herbal tea, then giving up and pouring brandy for Sarah, who’s sitting in John’s customary armchair with an orange police-issued blanket draped around her shoulders.

“I’m really sorry about all – that,” John tells his date, waving an arm awkwardly as if to encompass the entire evening, from botched circus date to unexpected kidnapping-by-Chinese-gangsters.

Sarah makes no reply, staring vacantly ahead, clutching the brandy like she’s drowning and it’s a lifeline tethering her to the shore.

She leaves much, much later, obviously reluctant to ever consider going out with John Watson again. (Or, indeed, going _out_ again at all.)

John stares after her mournfully, holding the fresh pot of herbal tea he’s just made. “Right, well,” he says, far too loudly for a room with just the two of them, “I think I’ll head off to bed.”

He trudges up the stairs, seemingly unaware of the steaming pot in his hand.

“John,” Sherlock calls, from his spot on the sofa.

John stops walking; the stairs creaking as his weight shifts. “Yeah?”

“I –” Sherlock starts, then stops before anything he’s thinking is actually articulated. _I’m glad your date’s gone_ , _I’m glad I don’t have to share_ , and _I’m glad you’re alone with me_ just don’t seem appropriate. “You might want to put the tea down,” is what he eventually settles on.

“Oh,” John says sheepishly, presumably when he looks down and realizes he’s still holding the pot. “Ow,” he says a moment later, presumably when he realizes it’s still hot.

John comes back down and a few moments later is stood in front of Sherlock. “Tea?” John offers, proffering the entire pot.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, reaching an arm out anyway, because it’s John and he can never say no to John. “Fine.”

-

_35 years old_

“You machine!” John shouts, the words reverberating in the sterile air of the laboratory, before piercing with finite precision Sherlock’s rib cage and lodging deep in his heart.

“Sod this,” John says, his body a line of tension and his fists clenched in anger. (Sherlock wishes John would hit him. It would hurt less.) “ _Sod_ this. You stay here if you want, on your own.”

John makes for the door, and Sherlock panics, because he needs John to understand; he needs John to know.

“Alone is what I have,” he says, and the arrow lodges deeper still, until every beat of his heart is a pulse of pain as he looks into John’s disappointed eyes, “Alone protects me.”

Mycroft, he reflects bitterly, as he pockets the squash ball, would be proud if he could see him now. _Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock_. Well, he supposes it’s his own damn fault; he should’ve learnt after Victor, but it’d been fourteen years after when he’d met John, and he’d been so alone, and he’d thought (hoped) that it would be different with John. In a way, it _is_ different: Sherlock’s the one doing the leaving this time, instead of behind left behind. (Somehow the thought does nothing to console him, at the thought of the endless, John-less expanse of time stretching ahead of him.) Sherlock is shaken out of his reverie when his phone chirps with a text from Moriarty.

The meeting on St. Bart’s roof is confirmed, the necessary arrangements with Mycroft made, and when Moriarty shoots himself in the head Sherlock knows what he has to do.

The wind whistles in his ear, almost drowning out the sound of John’s voice, a soothing balm in contrast to the chaos that has become Sherlock’s life.

“Leave a note when?” John’s voice almost breaks and Sherlock’s resolve wavers, hand trembling where it’s outstretched to John, a distant figure on the ground far below.

He glances down; the landing pad and homeless network are in place. “Goodbye, John.

“No, don’t,” John says, broken and anguished, and Sherlock’s vision blurs.

He presses ‘END CALL’ before he can say anything that will give himself away, spreads his arms and lets himself fall.

The plan is executed and timed perfectly, and as Sherlock lies on the red-stained concrete, motionless and pulse-less, he realizes this may have been a terrible idea.

“I’m a doctor, let me through,” he hears John shout, disoriented from his collision with the biker but still determined, still loyal to a fault. “He’s my friend, _please_.”

John’s fingers, when they check his wrist for a pulse, are steady, and Sherlock would be heartened if he didn’t know what state this means John will be in later. A litany of _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so sorry_ runs through his head, as John’s attempts to detect a pulse grow increasingly frantic.

“Please, let me just –” John rasps, as the medics arrive on the scene and begin lifting Sherlock onto a stretcher.

“ _Jesus_ , no,” John moans, as Sherlock is borne off to the ambulance, and maybe it’s cowardice, but Sherlock wishes more than anything that his homeless network hadn’t been ready, that he could have jumped and died like he was supposed to.

Because at least then he wouldn’t have to live with the knowledge that he’s caused John Watson so much pain.

-

_37 years old_

The bomb on the train carriage safely switched off, Sherlock straightens to face John on his knees, because if he doesn’t say it now, doesn’t get it off his chest, he doesn’t know how he ever will.

“Please, John – forgive me,” he says, plaintive and sincere. John’s eyes snap to his in shock and resignation. “For all the hurt that I caused you.”

John remains standing, refusing to give. It looks as if it’s taking John all the willpower he has not to punch Sherlock in the face.

“You’re just trying to make me say something nice,” he says testily, and Sherlock laughs brokenly because it’s true.

“I’m really not,” he lies, and tries again, because he’s apparently a masochist. “Look, John – this is all my fault –”

“Damn right,” John mutters, grimacing.

Sherlock soldiers on, “If I hadn’t come back, you wouldn’t be here with me,” the _about to experience death by implosion_ goes unsaid, “And you’d – you’d still have a future with Mary –”

It’s John’s turn to laugh brokenly this time. “Don’t you know? Haven’t you realized, Sherlock, haven’t you _deduced_ with that massive fucking intellect of yours?”

“What?” Sherlock says, thrown. The rest of his hastily prepared speech eludes him.

“That Mary and I aren’t – that we’re not –” John explains with characteristic eloquence, “We haven’t been seeing each other since you came back.”

Sherlock frowns. “You saw her just last –”

“Seeing each other, like, _seeing each other_ , Sherlock!” John says, voice rising in exasperation. “You know what I bloody well mean!”

“And it’s – my fault?” Sherlock asks, the pain of his knees against the unyielding floor nothing compared to the crushing weight on his chest.

“Yes, of _course_ it’s your fault, Sherlock!” John explodes, striding towards Sherlock in agitation. He stops two feet away, the (diffused) bomb in the floor between them, standing over where Sherlock’s knelt on the floor. “ _You_ left, and you took everything with you. Then I met Mary and I thought, ‘Why not, maybe she won’t up and leave me like the fucking twat I was in love with for years did’ – but then guess what? You _had_ to show up again, didn’t you? Just swan back into my life, two years late, and pretend we can pick up where we left off. Well, Mary’s having none of it, anyway. Says I’m ‘too obsessed’ with you for her to be comfortable, so thanks, Sherlock, really, because as usual the world revolves around you and the rest of us are just here for your _convenience_ , aren’t we?”

Sherlock’s brain, while usually operating at a much higher (or so he likes to think) speed than a normal person’s, stutters to a halt, leaving him incapable of processing much information beyond a single phrase, repeating itself over and over until it spills from his mouth.

“You’re in love with me?”

John gapes as he realizes what’s just happened, and Sherlock can practically _see_ the cogs turning in his brain, as John opens his mouth to begin verbally backpedaling his way out of the situation.

He looks up at John, really _looks_ at him, past the nick on his chin from the shaving incident he’d had this morning because his hands were trembling, past his mismatched jumper and shirt which he’d clearly been allowed out of the house with because Mary isn’t there to stop him anymore, and sees the return of the sentiments he never thought he’d find.

He decides to take a chance.

“Don’t hit me,” he tells John, before reaching out and tugging on John’s wrist, harder than is strictly necessary, so he over-balances and falls, bearing Sherlock to the floor in the process.

John glares. “What –”

“Sh, John,” Sherlock mutters, willing the erratic beat of his heart to slow. “Deduce _this_ –” And with that he surges up so his lips meet John’s, who immediately groans and threads a hand through Sherlock’s hair, returning the kiss with such enthusiasm and fervour Sherlock wonders how he could _possibly_ have doubted John’s feelings for him.

John pulls back far too soon, practically wrenching his lips away, and Sherlock blinks, hope and disappointment warring for dominance in his heart.

“The bomb!” John exclaims, startled and wide-eyed, and Sherlock laughs hysterically, the relief that John’s not already regretting the kiss making him giddy, light-headed. (It feels oddly like a high, except much more potent and much less damaging. Also not illegal.)

“It’s too late now, John,” he says, with all the solemnity he can muster whilst sitting on the floor, clutching his stomach and shaking with laughter. “Hey, at least we’ve got one another, now.”

“Sherlock – what –” John snaps, leaning over to find the bomb switched off and the countdown rendered useless. “You twat,” he says with feeling, turning to face Sherlock with murder in his eye. “You utter – _cock_ , I will _end_ you – I swear –”

“Oh, John, but you said such nice things,” Sherlock says, still chuckling, “We could’ve carried on, you know. If I hadn’t turned the bomb off, we might well have just _gone out with a bang_.”

There’s a pause while John looks stricken, torn between punching the living daylights out of Sherlock or fucking the living daylights out of him.

He settles for an uncontrollable giggle that’s entirely incongruous to the situation at hand. “You’re – terrible, you know that?” he asks between breaths.

“Unfortunately, I do,” Sherlock says lightly, his chest feeling even lighter, and Mycroft can go sod himself because it’s worth it, all of it, all the pain, if only because it’s led to this moment with John.

-

_40 years old_

It’s taken him approximately eight years but now Sherlock has a conclusive answer: John Watson is a terror and menace to mankind.

Exhibit A (earlier this week):

“Sherlock, if you don’t start labelling human appendages properly I _will_ throw them out.”

What followed was a methodical (and cruel) enforcement of said threat. Sherlock arrived just in time to save the jar of toes from contamination, but everything else had been thrown away.

Exhibit B (earlier this morning):

“Sherlock, it’s been two days since the case ended; if you don’t eat something I’m going to take your microscope away.”

He then proceeded to do just that, and only by virtue of bargaining and a token promise to do the dishes tonight, did Sherlock manage to save his bacteria cultures from John.

Exhibit C (right now):

They’re at a crime scene (locked room murder, no windows), and because Sherlock had (foolishly) agreed to a bet the other day, John is now doing everything in his power to deter Sherlock from his investigation.

The body has evidently been hit with a blunt instrument, judging by the bruising and blood around the back of the head, which can mean one of two things, that the room has no –

“Y’know, I’ve had a thought,” John murmurs, keeping his voice low so none of their friends from NSY can hear, “You must’ve pickpocketed Lestrade dozens of times by now.”

“Hm,” Sherlock says non-committally, refusing to give John the satisfaction. He turns his attention back to the cadaver.

“How many pairs of handcuffs do we have lying around the flat, hm?” John continues, voice pitched low with intent, “Maybe we should put them to good use sometime. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Sherlock?”

“Heh,” Sherlock says, swallowing quickly. He glances away from the body to look at John, which is a mistake, because his pupils are dilated and his tongue comes darting out to wet chapped lips at this precise, inopportune moment.

Sherlock shakes his head to clear it, turning his attention back to the case at hand. So the only way the murderer could have gotten into the room _must_ be through the –

“How ’bout tonight?” John asks nonchalantly, “Does tonight work for you? We could celebrate your success in solving this case. I’ll even wear the uniform – you’d like that, wouldn’t you? I’ve seen your face whenever I pull the Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers card, Holmes.”

“John, I –” Sherlock says, mouth dry and mind completely blank (for once).

“Come on, Sherlock,” John says, “Solve this and we’ll leave right now, I promise. I won’t even make you stay and explain it to Lestrade – you can text him later. Just solve this one case – for me.”

Sherlock struggles to shake off the haze John’s words have put on him, and concentrates on the bare facts of the case, because he’s the world’s only consulting detective, goddammit, and he’s not about to be thwarted by his own libido.

The back of John’s hand brushes his own and (maybe it’s a coincidence, maybe not) but everything crystallizes, culminates in a single moment of revelation – “The vents!” Sherlock cries, breathless with exhilaration. “John, you’re a marvel!”

He whirls, hands coming up to frame John’s face as he kisses him, much to John’s surprise and everyone else’s consternation.

“Sherlock, for the love of – this is a crime scene!” Lestrade squawks, flapping his arms ineffectually (Sherlock and John remain glued at the mouth), “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

At that, John breaks off, turning to face Lestrade with a smirk. “We do, actually. Would you mind?”

Lestrade opens his mouth, looking highly affronted.

Sherlock cuts in, to save time (it’s only economical). “He means sex. John and I – we’re going to have lots of it, preferably involving some of your missing handcuffs, Lestrade, and also possibly John’s army uniform, so unless you want to hear about it you’ll kindly excuse us.”

John giggles, seems to realize now isn’t the best time, and hurriedly stifles it. He clears his throat. “He’ll – ehm – he’ll send you a text telling you how he solved it. Good afternoon.”

Sherlock takes John by the hand and they leave the crime scene with before either of them can say anything more to embarrass themselves.

-

**_Sherlock’s phone, today at 17:07_ **

MYCROFT: _I was wrong, brother mine._

SHERLOCK: _A rare occasion, I’m sure. But I’m curious – what about?_

MYCROFT: _I’ve just heard from DI Lestrade some rather_ interesting _developments regarding yours and Dr Watson’s relationship._

SHERLOCK: …

SHERLOCK: _Dear God in heaven above, Mycroft. Stop now, or I swear I_

MYCROFT: _It’s alright, brother dear. You’ve found your goldfish, I’ve found mine._

MYCROFT: [sent an image] _Only for you, Greg <3_

SHERLOCK: _MYCROFT, WHAT. I DID NOT NEED TO SEE THAT I WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO LOOK LESTRADE IN THE EYE AGAIN_

**_Sherlock’s phone, today at 18:11_ **

MYCROFT: _Apologies. I appear to have sent it to the wrong person._

MYCROFT: _This is rather embarrassing._

SHERLOCK: _… You think?_

MYCROFT: _I meant to tell you, just now. Caring isn’t an advantage, Sherlock_

SHERLOCK: _You’re seriously going to lecture me, after you and Lestrade?!_

MYCROFT: _You didn’t let me finish. Sometimes, caring is the only advantage, and you must remember that that takes precedent over caring about what other people think of you. I was foolish; I thought I would be able to protect your heart by steeling you against your own emotions. I never expected someone like Dr Watson to come along and break down all those fortified walls._

SHERLOCK: _Enough with metaphors, Mycroft._

SHERLOCK: _I understand. And congratulations on your new goldfish._

MYCROFT: _Likewise._

**Author's Note:**

> if you haven't noticed already, the ages i used are probably not canon-compliant. I've just used ben's age as he was in 2009 when ASIP was filmed, and counted from there. 
> 
> also idk if i've made it obvious enough but the image that Myc accidentally sent to sherlock was presumably some sort of seductive pose/dick pic that was only meant for lestrade's eyes
> 
> thanks so much for reading and i hope you enjoyed that xx 
> 
> tell me what you thought in the comments if you did and i'll love you forever <3 also happy valentine's day (:


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